


Bewitched, Bothered And Bewildered

by smauglocki



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Bad Ending, But here is my very poor attempt of a fic, I Tried, Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M, POV First Person, The original fic was so good and inspiring and I loved it so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:52:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7676278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smauglocki/pseuds/smauglocki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling in love with him was an imperceptive move. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Bewitched, Bothered And Bewildered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [treasuredleisure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Something Sweeter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/905681) by [treasuredleisure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/treasuredleisure/pseuds/treasuredleisure). 



_13th July, 1962. Paris, France._

 

Here I lay, tossed to the side, my hair unruly, my mind a mess. The mattress is stiff beneath me, the air hot and heavy; I can smell silence hanging in the humidity, breathe in the sweet, musky scent of nostalgia. The familiar bitter-almond taste of loneliness is present, too, treading behind the two like the good company it is. The fan turns in lazy circles, doing nothing to dispel the heat. It even seemed to spur the fever on: I can feel the heat pressing down on me like a tyrant, a draconian lover. Sweat builds on my chest, the small of my back, the tip of my nose. I would wipe it with the back of my hand but it would only return, and at this moment, I cannot bring myself to do something so futile.

 

I close my eyes, wishing it would rid me of my senses. Everything remained. I expect they'll remain for the rest of the night until dawn, until the sun comes up and the city comes alive, until slumber swallows us whole and darkness blankets the sky, until clocks strike midnight and noon, and on, and on, and on...

 

I sigh. The breath left me with much dejection, it was as if it was afraid to leave the comforts of my lungs. I feel a pang of sympathy for it - I don't think I'd be able to deal with the world, either, after I've seen that face. 

 

_Falling in love with him was an imperceptive move._

 

My heart beats dully in my chest. As I drift away, I feel the weight of his arm on my waist, his breath on my nape. "Seni seviyorum," "אני אוהב אותךָ" ,"دوستت دارم", he said.

 

Lies have never sounded so beautiful.

 

\-----

 

_14th July, 1962. Paris, France._

 

I sit staring at this cup of tea, wondering if it's half-full or half-empty. I don't much care for the answer; I just need a little distraction, anything to draw me away from thoughts of him. 

 

Talk about an exercise in futility: How can you hide from what never goes away?

 

I dreamt about him again last night. His voice, telling me how beautiful I was. His touch, showing me how beautiful I could be.

 

I wish I could scald my mind the way I'm scalding my tongue - why is it that the harder we try to forget something, the more we seem to remember it?

 

Thirteen was an unlucky number, and I knew it. He came looking for sugar on that heat-hazed day, and I, younger and naiver, invited him in. I still find myself puzzled about why, exactly, I did it. Perhaps it was the rich, resonant seclusion he exuded, or the way he paused at the sight of me. Either way, it made me feel special, desirable. No one had ever - at first sight - desired me the way he did before. Lust shimmered in his eyes, awe lingered in his pupils. The way he ran when I asked for help - it explained why he drank his coffee with sugar, despite his bitter appearance. I was smitten with him, I'll admit. There's an attraction there that I can't deny, a mysteriousness about him that I wanted to explore. When he apologised with kisses onto my knuckles, with sincerity in his sea green eyes, I could feel my heart flutter. When I told him I saved my apologies for much worse - I meant every word.

 

His kisses were hot, heated. They left invisible marks on my skin, ones that still burned with pleasure with every memory of him. The ghost of his touch brought about a small palpitation, a wave of tremor, a petite earthquake: it made me quiver, made my heart tremble and shake and shudder. It felt like tachycardia, like the prelude to a cardiac arrest - but in the best of ways. He worshipped me with his lips, and I bloomed beneath his gaze, preened at every graze of his skin on mine. My beauty shone brightest when reflected in his eyes - he looked at me with such awe and admiration that my heart ached, and I wanted to cry. As he slowly broke me apart, peeling off layers and layers of my skin, the fear of being exposed disappeared, and the idea of being stripped, of baring my soul to another being, was bewitching.

 

Our pulses danced to the same tune, our soul swayed to the same rhythm. Our affair was nothing more than a robbery: with each movement of his skin against mine, he stole a piece of my breath, bits of my being. When I came, it was a little death. I would come to find, later on, as I lay on my stomach and his come dried on my thighs, that he had escaped with the greatest crime of all. Nowhere could I find my most valuable asset, the treasure which I had kept hidden for so long. He stroked my cheek with his hand and I found it again: there it was, my heart. Only it was no longer beating for my survival, but for him and him alone.

 

We met again and again and again. He tipped his hat that one time he had one on; I laughed. He let me take him out to dinner, as long as he got to take pictures of me drinking from the bottle. He loved tracing his fingertips on the bullet in my back; I was proud that it pleased him. The affair was one that was meant to last - one that I believed should have lasted.

 

But he was poison disguised as confection, and all his bittersweetness became tart, acetous. His kisses became snakebites, his touch began to sting, and his gaze cut into me like silver knives. The pleasure he used to find in my form and my company became boredom; comments that used to make him smile, instead, made him frown. I felt lost. Where had the magic disappear?

 

The love for me that came so easily to him was just as quickly replaced by contempt. One day, in a fitful argument, he hit me. It was the back of his hand, I think, that hit my face. I forgave him almost immediately. It was an accident, it should have ended there, would have ended there, but he.

 

But he.

 

He had found interest in someone better, someone more interesting, more intoxicating, more desirable: a woman. She had curves where I was levelled, was colourful in places where I was not. She understood him better, he said. I've changed, he said. You're different, he said. Goodbye, he said, with no more than the slightest brush of his lips against my cheek. 

 

It didn't take him long at all to forget me, to abandon me and leave me simply as the evidence of a ruined affair, an experiment. Funny, how my chest still feels empty. It seems he's forgot to return to me my heart.

 

And here I sit. The same cup of tea, though it has ceased to breathe, no longer exhaling heat. I take a sip of it and the bitterness slides down my throat. Over brewed, I think. Yet I make no move to add any milk or sugar - again, thinking of the futility of the act. It's getting dark again, so I pay and get up off my seat, shuffling back up the stairs and into my room.

 

I know that my heart would never again tremble for another the way it did for him. That my body would not know the heat of desire the way he made it feel. That my mind would not touch a mind so beautifully broken, so picturesquely macabre, like a diamond with jagged edges, like his, again. And his soul - fuck - I would never be able to taste a soul so deliciously bitter the way I tasted his. Never again.

 

Did he love me? I believe he did, in that small infinity of ours, I believe he did truly, really, love me.

 

I suppose, as they say: good things simply aren't meant to last.

 

At least, they never have for me.


End file.
